


Musings of an Orphan

by rthecynic



Series: Musketeer Musings [3]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: I suppose it could be Portamis if you squint suuuuuuper hard, childhood meeting fic, musings from Aramis this time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-07
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-10-05 19:59:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17331386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rthecynic/pseuds/rthecynic
Summary: 3rd part of a series of musings from the Musketeers. The first time Aramis met Porthos was completely unexpected.Just a silly little childhood fic based on a prompt about skating on thin ice.





	Musings of an Orphan

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Canaanation](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Canaanation/gifts).



The cold chill of the icy wind seems to burn your skin, yet you can’t stop smiling. You’re still a boy, after all, and the excitement at seeing snow still fills your spirit. In the distance, you can hear Brother Matthieu calling for you, but you simply run faster. You will miss class, and you know you will be given a thrashing later, but for now, you find you do not care. Not when this perfect day is waiting for you.

Leaving St-Martin-des-Champs behind you, you hurry through the quiet streets, a second pair of boots in your hand. You’ve strapped long, flat bones to the bottom of them, perfect for gliding across the frozen ponds in the Tuileries gardens. You’re not supposed to be there, of course, but it is early enough in the morning that you won’t be seen. In fact, you’ve done this many times over the years.

You take your usual route, through the streets of the Court of Miracles. You wouldn’t do this later in the day, when the beggars begin to fill the streets, but for now, the area is almost deserted and it is the quickest route. 

As you run, you catch sight of a group of boys around your own age, playing in an alleyway. At least, you think they’re playing. Perhaps they seem to be fighting, but there is no desperation behind it. You still find yourself speeding up, however. You don’t want them to see you. You’ve never been in a fight before.

By the time you reach the pond, your hands are numb and your cheeks are red from cold, but a wide grin still splits your face. You sit on a mound of snow, swap out your boots. You’re lucky; one of the other boys left these with you when he was taken in by a family. If not, you could never have this opportunity. 

You always feel graceful on the ice, as if you are flying. You spin and glide across the glassy surface, snow falling around you. You feel free. Nothing else ever seems to make you so happy as this feeling. It is why you long so much for the snow to come, why you care little for the punishments you endure for missing classes. You are good at your studies; they say you could be a wonderful asset to the church someday, but you are a dreamer. You want freedom and adventure. This is as close as you are ever likely to get.

Suddenly, you stumble. A scream rings in your ears, and it takes a moment to recognise it as your own. You crash down hard, numb hands scrabbling at the ice as you try to regain your footing. The crack is loud, reverberating in your mind for what seems like forever before the ice beneath you shatters and you are engulfed in the freezing waters below.

You try to fight, you really do, but your limbs won’t seem to move. Everything seems so warm and so cold all at once. It seems so easy to just close your eyes, let the waters drag you down into the darkness that’s creeping into your mind. 

You feel like you’re falling into oblivion. It is slow, almost as if you remain suspended in place. You never seem to reach the bottom of the pool. You don’t know how long it’s been, this fall. Your mind is fuzzy, everything is dark. The water hugs you like a blanket, cradles you in a gentle caress. Something touches your hand, but it is distant. You can hardly feel it. Perhaps it is nothing. Perhaps it is the hand of your mother, come to lead you to God. Whatever it is, you can’t return the grip. You close your eyes…

Your lungs burn as you suddenly break the surface, gasping for a breath that never quite seems to come. No matter how much air you gulp in, it's not enough. Your lungs still burn, your body still won’t move. Someone is dragging you through the water, towards the snowy banks. Two others wait there – the boys from the alley. They must have followed you here. You don’t know why. Does it matter? They’ve saved your life.

You are hoisted back onto dry land and your body starts to tremble uncontrollably.

“Someone give him their jacket!”

The voice seems distant, but you know it’s coming from your rescuer. The two boys are both wearing clothing even more threadbare than your own, but they share it willingly; one of them wrapping a dry jacket around your shoulders, the other handing his to your saviour. 

The boy who saved you looks so much older than the others, but you think it is just his build. He is tall and broad, dark skin and darker hair, warm brown eyes. He looks at you with concern. 

“Hey, you alright? Can you hear me?”

You squint up at him, try to stop everything looking so fuzzy.

“T-Thank you…” you manage to rasp, and the boy seems relieved.

“Just as well we followed you! We hadn’t seen you around before and we wanted to know where you came from.” He lifts you into his arms as he speaks, as easily as if he were lifting a new-born babe. You’re scrawny, barely skin and bones, but you feel like this doesn’t matter. He would be able to lift you anyway. “Keep talking to me, alright? You need to stay awake. What’s your name, huh? Where do you live?”

You’re confused for a moment. You can hardly remember… It takes a few moments of contemplating before you can come up with an answer.

“René…” you whisper. “My name is René… I-I live in St-Martin…” 

You trail off there, curling into the boy’s arms in an attempt to seek warmth. He seems to understand, he doesn’t ask you anything more. You can feel that he’s running, but you can’t keep your eyes open any longer… 

~~~~~

When you awake, he is gone. You are in your bed at the monastery, Brother Matthieu praying by your side. They bring you some broth, feed you some regularly as you regain your strength. You are lectured, of course, but you are too weak to be beaten. They cannot tell you anything about your rescuer, not even a name. You resolve to return to the Court soon to search for him.

You never get the chance. As soon as you are recovered, they send you to Herblay, to study under the Abbé there. You spend the next ten years as his pupil, but you never feel that this is your calling. As soon as you turn 17, you leave the parish, join the Carabiniers-à-Cheval. You are with them for five years, and earn a reputation as the finest sharpshooter in France. It isn’t long before you find yourself called to Paris, at the tender age of 22, and offered a place within the prestigious Musketeer regiment. 

You are nervous, the day you walk into the garrison for the first time. The Musketeers are widely regarded as the finest men in France, and you still aren’t sure what you can offer them. You have no noble lineage; you are a simple church orphan who wanted something more exciting out of life. You expect they will soon recognise their mistake and send you back. 

You look around at all these men; new recruits and old, training together and laughing like old friends. Their movements seem so fluid, as if the sword is a part of their bodies. You marvel at their skill. Hadn’t you always dreamed of joining them? Perhaps, if you work hard enough, you can earn a place among them. 

There’s another new recruit across the courtyard who doesn’t seem to have his uniform yet. Perhaps it is his first day too. You cross the yard to greet him, but your mouth goes dry as soon as he turns to look at you. 

You know those eyes. Warm, brown eyes. You’ve seen them often in your dreams over the years. 

He smiles at you, extends his hand. 

“Porthos,” he tells you, and you finally have a name. You can’t help but smile. You don’t know if he recognises you, but it hardly matters. You’ve found him, and perhaps one day you can repay him for saving your life.

“René,” you reply as you take his outstretched hand. “But you can call me Aramis.”

**Author's Note:**

> So apparently I'm on a roll with the musings at the moment, but I'm not gonna be doing D'Artagnan's POV for Musings of a Father until I get back from Italy, so... Have this instead I guess.
> 
> Honestly, this is just something I've had in my head for a long time and had to get written down, and I don't want to limit myself to only exploring Athos and D'Artagnan in these musings. 
> 
> I might start working on longer stuff soon though; it just depends what I can some up with. And who knows how long this roll will last for, lol, so I'm trying to get stuff out whilst I actually have muse!
> 
> I'm capitaineathos on tumblr, or you can catch me on my main at rthcynic. Feel free to send me prompts or to just come and say hi!


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